Prelude to a Kiss
by kflo814
Summary: Anna is left wanting after her almost-kiss with Mr. Bates. My first attempt at Downton Abbey fanfic. I welcome any feedback and hope to post more chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Anna considered the large metal key resting in the palm of her hand. To do anything other than return it to its hook next to the door would be tantamount to insubordination. She imagined Mrs. Hughes' likely shock and disappointment upon discovering her using it without express permission, the offense aggravated by the late hour. Her mind roiled and struggled with the ultimate consequence of losing her position as head housemaid or, perhaps if it was unforgivable, even being made to leave Downton. "Just don't get caught," she reasoned.

She closed her eyes and brought herself back to an earlier hour, a moment that nearly led to a kiss. She secretly cursed whoever it was that opened the back door and brought everything to a halt. She could still feel Mr. Bates' strong hand lifting her delicate fingers, never wanting to leave his gentle grasp. The moment wasn't over. It was merely paused, and tonight it was her intention to revisit and resume.

Standing at the door separating the women's quarters from the men's, she recalled the evening she brought Mr. Bates' dinner the sad day His Lordship terminated his employment, ever grateful it was only temporary. She remembered his tears, his sobbing, her own heartbreak at witnessing the private moment of a broken man followed by having to tell him goodbye. She remembered when she was sick, and he came to her. She opened the same door for him as he returned the gesture, bringing her food accented by a vase of pretty flowers, his sweet gesture imprinted on her heart.

This night, she had no tray of dinner, no consent to walk through the door to the other side. Her choice might not be the practical one, but her heart seemed to be making this decision, this night. One turn of the key followed by a click she feared would alert the other servants, and she had chosen. She waited a moment to be sure no one awakened then crept down the hallway toward his room, her nightgown billowing with each silent footstep.

Anna stood squarely in front of his door, "Bates" written in elegant black script on the placard. Even the sight of his name quickened her heartbeat. "Bates." In the most secret places in her heart, she had tried on "Anna Bates" more than once. She closed her eyes and exhaled.

John Bates sat awake in his bed, resolved that he'd not sleep tonight. The prelude to a kiss electrified him, and tonight, his mind and heart would be consumed. In his unrest, he turned to a collection of Yeats poetry, and with flickering candlelight, found the worn page containing his favorite poem. He liked the feel of the book in his hand but did not need the printed words to guide him; after hundreds of readings, he'd memorized it. In the past months, the once anonymous pilgrim soul had taken on her likeness:

_When you are old and gray and full of sleep,  
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,  
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look  
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep_

He paused to think of her eyes — her kind, warm eyes that captivated him whenever they locked with his so many times during any given day. Her tender eyes that welled up with tears when she saw him in pain, told him goodbye, and on their walk to the flower show, the eyes that glistened when she said, "I love you, Mr. Bates." The moment the words graced his ears, it took all his will not to gather her in his arms and declare his truth, that he loved her from his core.  
_  
How many loved your moments of glad grace,  
And loved your beauty with love false or true,  
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,  
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_

It pained him to know he may have caused her sorrow by not reciprocating her precious words or by not casting aside what he felt was right for what he knew was true. He felt unworthy, unclean when he thought of his past. Although she assured him for her there was not a better man, he'd never want his shame to come near her, and so he'd reluctantly continue to maintain a distance, though the ache for her grieved him so, and earlier this night, there at last was little distance between them.

"There's always a place for a man like you," she'd once told him. Was he a fool to dream of it being with her?

_And bending down beside the glowing bars,  
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled  
And paced upon the mountains overhead  
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars._

A light knock on the door punctuated the ending of the poem. Bates looked up, puzzled at which of the men might be knocking on his door so late. He marked the page in his book, put it on his nightstand and picked up his cane. The floor beneath his bare feet felt cool as he moved toward the door. He turned the knob and opened it a few inches. Anna stood before him, her fair skin and long blonde braid a beacon in the dark shadows.

His heart leapt. He whispered, "Anna ... are you all right?"

"Mr. Bates," she said quietly, "I'm ... I know this is ... " She fell silent, not knowing how to finish, and looked up into his eyes, hoping to find the words. Had she made a grave mistake, coming to him in the night, standing at his door, wanting to scream out how she felt but with nothing to say? Maybe she should just make her apologies, go back to her room and hope it wouldn't be too awkward in the morning, as they sat in their self-appointed places next to each other at breakfast.

He looked at her there, more natural and beautiful than any day he'd seen her, and although all his sensibilities told him not to, two years of loving her prompted him. He peeked into the hallway, left, then right. Satisfied it was vacant, save Anna, he stepped back.

"Come in," he whispered, and gently shut the door behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Anna took in the room before her. His room. The oval mirror where she'd glimpsed his tearful reflection. A clock and borrowed books from Lord Grantham's library on the mantel. A rocking chair where she imagined he might sit and rest his injured leg after a long day of service. A pitcher and basin. _He's always impeccable. And smells of musk and comfort, she thought._ A bureau separating two beds, his on the right. _She blushed to think how many times she had imagined herself in it, tucked in at his side, her head cradled in the crook of his arm._ A lit candle on his nightstand and a book, likely still warm from his touch. And finally, John Bates. Tall and solid. Handsome. To her, a gentleman. In comfortable trousers and a cotton shirt, she knew he'd been awake, too. The usual refuge she felt in his presence deferred slightly to vulnerability. Still, she was exactly where she intended to be.

She nodded toward the flame. "I've disturbed you," she said. "Your reading, I mean."

He chuckled. "You couldn't have been more prompt. It appears as though neither of us was destined for sleep tonight."

"I dare say," she replied.

"May I?" Bates gestured toward the key, still in Anna's grip. She let go, and he reached over to the mantel, placing it next to the clock, which now read half past one.

"_That_ was bold. Using the key. Coming over to this side, so late." His brave Anna.

_Bold or insane, depending on what happens next, she thought._

"I had to. I've been out of my head since this evening. Mr. Bates, you and I have ... an unfinished issue.

Bates smiled. "I agree."

_Thank the Lord._


	3. Chapter 3

She looked up at him, and there they were: The words she'd struggled to find minutes before lighted upon her heart.

"I know there are things in your past you're not proud of, and I know you haven't told me everything. Yet. But every saint has a past, Mr. Bates. Every sinner, a future. We all can be forgiven, including from our own selves, else we can't move forward."

He took her hand in his and caressed her small fingers.

"You are good, John Bates. You are honorable. And I love you. With my whole heart, I do."

John Bates had not courted a woman in nearly twenty years. He was out of practice, legally bound to another and faced with what surely would have to be a clandestine relationship between servants. Still, with everything stacked against him, Anna was there. In his room. In her nightgown. In the middle of the night. Professing her love. Her faith in him steadfast and unconditional. Everything that shouldn't be, was.

Hours earlier, she stood by him through the ugly business of a false accusation by the vile Thomas and O'Brien. Stealing wine. It was especially insulting, since he vowed never again to be that man. Unwavering Anna, even after he revealed to her what he had been in his past life — a drunkard and imprisoned as a thief. Her concern? Not what he'd confessed, but that he'd leave Downton. _Anna, you love so well._

John Bates, for years, fueled by shame, guilt, anger, regret, had traded in one hell — the disaster that was his marriage, to a woman who hadn't been his wife, truly — for another doused in alcohol. Turmoil became his estate, and he trained himself not to want anything in its stead.

Until Anna.

She invigorated him and reawakened places that had gone numb after lying dormant for so long. She was his daylight. His springtime. His first thought each morning and last thought each night.

Not free to love, he loved. And so after years of bowing to the self-imposed binds that kept him prisoner to his past, he released them enough to allow himself to speak his truth: "And I love you, Anna. My darling girl."

_My pilgrim soul._


	4. Chapter 4

Bates found his balance and stood firm, hooking his cane on the foot rail of his bed. With gentle fingers still holding hers, he drew Anna to him and brought his free hand around her back, grazing his fingers up her neck and losing them in her soft hair. She took a small step toward him, rested her palm on his chest and felt the strong beat and warm skin through his shirt.

_Anna Smith, remember this always._ The slight tilt of his head, complementing hers. The shadows and light dancing across his face. His dark, smiling eyes. And the beginning of a joyful tear, betraying his customary reserve.

As it traced a salty path down his cheek, he leaned closer and felt her heated breath on his lips, slightly parted and poised to meet hers. Anna's eyes fluttered and closed. He pressed his mouth to hers, deliberate and firm. She clutched his shirt in her hand to steady herself, weakened by the rush that flooded her body.

Her tiny moan kindled a new fire in him, and he felt his boundaries crumbling. He lightly tasted her bottom lip. She consented and coaxed his lips open with her tongue, inviting him deeper. Each claimed the other in their silent accord.

The candle burned long, and when its flame died, the sudden darkness summoned them from their embrace.

"You'd better get back," he whispered in her ear, then took the key from his mantle and placed it in her hand.

Anna looked down at it, a tangible symbol of the real separation they'd be expected to maintain. "What happens tomorrow?"

Bates looked at the clock. "It _is _tomorrow_. _So, I expect we'll find our way." He kissed her forehead. "I'll see you in the morning." _And every morning after that._

She smiled tenderly and nodded. Turning into the hallway, she retraced her steps to the women's quarters. Bates' protective gaze followed her. He watched her silhouette hang the key back on its hook and disappear into her room. _Good night, my love._

Downton Abbey lay silent, cloaked in a crowd of stars, with Anna Smith and John Bates settled in their beds and full of sleep.

The End


End file.
